THE WOMAN'S STORY
I had never supposed I lacked audacity, yet I found it strangely
difficult to again pick up our conversation. This woman puzzled me;
was becoming an enigma. She encouraged me, and yet something about her
precluded all familiarity. I was haunted by the vague suspicion that
she might be "stringing" me; that she was not as innocent as she
pretended. Her eyes again glanced up, and met mine.
"It is a terrible experience being penniless, and alone," she said with
a shudder. "I can never condemn some forms of evil as I once did, for
now I have felt temptation myself. I--I have even learned to doubt my
own strength of character. I walked past a great hotel last evening,
and looked in through the windows, at the dining-room. It was
brilliant with electric lights, in rose globes over the spotless
tables, and hundreds of people were gathered about eating and drinking.
I had been there myself more than once, yet then I was alone outside,
in the misty street, penniless. I had no strength left, no virtue--I
was in heart a criminal. Have you ever felt that?"
"Yes," I acknowledged, hopeful she would explain further. "I
comprehend fully what you mean. Nature is stronger than any of us when
it comes to the supreme trial."
"I had never known before. It is strange to confess such a thing, but
it is true. I--I do not believe I am weak as compared with others.
Never before have I had any occasion to question the supremacy of my
will, yet I learned a lesson last night--that I am not a saint. I
actually faced crime, and it did not even look horrible to me! it
appeared justified. Even now, sitting here with you, I cannot believe
I was wicked. You will not misconstrue my words, but--but life is not
always the same, is it? How inexpressibly cruel a great city may be
with glaring wealth flaunting itself in the pinched face of poverty.
How can I help being rebellious now that I have seen all this through
hungry eyes?"
Her hands were clasped above her plate, the slender fingers
intertwined. I was looking at her so intently forgot to answer.
"I--I am glad I met you," she said frankly. "I--I think you have saved
me from myself."
"You asked me my name," I broke in eagerly. "Would you mind telling me
who you are?"
"I?" the clear cheeks reddening. "Why, I am only a fool."
"Then there is, at least, one tie between us. But, if we are to remain
friends I must know how to address you."
Her red lips parted doubtfully, her brow wrinkling.
"Yes, and we cannot afford to be conventional, can we? I am Viola
Bernard."
"I knew a girl once by that name; ages ago it seems now. A little
thing in short skirts, but I thought her rather nice. I believe we are
inclined to like names associated with pleasant memories. So I am glad
your name is Viola."
"It was my mother's name," she said quietly, her eyes downcast, "and I
am not sorry you like it." She stirred the coffee in her cup, watching
the bubbles rise to the surface. "I feel more confidence in you than I
did, because you have been so honest about yourself."
"I have told you the truth. I think I comprehend one trait, at least,
of your character--you would never again trust one who had deliberately
deceived you."
She did not remove her eyes from the cup, nor appear to note my
interruption, but continued gravely:
"I must tell my story to someone; I can fight fate alone no longer.
Perhaps I may not confess everything, for I do not know you well enough
for that, but enough, at least, so you will no longer suspect that I--I
am a bad woman."
"I could never really believe that."
"Oh, yes, you could. I have read in your face that my character
puzzles you. You invited me to drink a cocktail to try me. Don't
protest, for really I do not wonder at it, or blame you in the least.
How could you think otherwise? My position was a strange one, bound to
awaken suspicion; my conduct immodest. Yet you must accept my
explanation, for I shall tell the truth. I was never guilty of such an
act before--never! Perhaps because I was never tempted. There is a
home I could return to, and a mother, but they are more than a thousand
miles from here. But I cannot go, even if I possessed the means,
because of my pride--my false pride possibly. I have chosen my course,
and must abide by it to the end."
She drew a long breath, speaking very slowly.
"It is a hard story to tell, for the wound is still fresh, and hurts.
I was upon the stage--not long, but with sufficient success so that I
had become leading woman with one of the best stock companies. It was
against my mother's wish I entered the profession, and she has never
become reconciled to it, although our relationship remained pleasant.
A few months ago, while playing in Omaha, I met Fred Bernard. I knew
little of him, but he appeared gentlemanly and well-to-do, and was
presented to me by one in whom I had confidence. He was pleasant, and
apparently in love with me; I liked him, was flattered by his
attentions, and discouraged in my ambition. When he asked me to marry
him conditions were such that I accepted, even consented, under his
urging, to an immediate ceremony. We came to this city, were quietly
married here, and occupied a flat on the north side. My husband did no
work, but received remittances from home, and apparently had plenty of
means. He told me little about himself, or his condition, but promised
to take me to his people in a little while. He said his father was
wealthy, but eccentric; that he had told him of our marriage, but there
had been a quarrel between them, and he could not take me there without
an invitation. I was never shown the letters, but they bore Southern
postmarks."
She paused, hesitating, her eyes full of pain.
"I--I was afraid to question, for--for he proved so different after our
marriage. He was a drunkard, abusive and quarrelsome. I had never
before been in intimate contact with anyone like that, and I was afraid
of him. Whatever of love I might have felt died within me under abuse.
He struck me the second day, and from that moment I dreaded his
home-coming. For weeks I scarcely saw him sober, and his treatment of
me was brutal."
Tears were in her eyes, but she held them back, forcing herself to go
on.
"Then he was gone two days and nights leaving me alone. He reappeared
the third evening in the worst condition I had ever seen him. He acted
like a veritable savage, cursing and striking at me, and finally drove
me from the house, flourishing a revolver in my face, and locking the
door behind me. I--I sat there on the steps an hour, and endeavored to
go back, but there was no response. I walked the streets, and
then--having a little money with me--found a place to lodge. The next
day I went back, but the flat was locked still, and neighbors said my
husband had left with a traveling bag. I--I was actually thrown out
upon the streets to starve."
Her voice lowered, so that I was compelled to lean closer to catch the
rapidly spoken words.
"At first I--I was not altogether sorry. I thought it would be easy to
find work. I was not afraid of that--but--but it was not easy. Oh!
how hard I tried. I faced open insult; cowardly insinuation; brutal
coarseness. I never dreamed before how men could treat women seeking
honorable employment. Scarcely a courteous word greeted me. Refusal
was blunt, imperative, or else, in those cases where vague
encouragement was given, it was so worded as to cause my withdrawal in
shame. If I had been skilled in any business line my reception might
have been different; if I possessed recommendations, or could have
frankly confessed the truth, perhaps I might have been given a chance.
But as it was everywhere, suspicion was aroused by my reticence, my
inability to explain, and the interview ended in curt dismissal, or
suggestive innuendo."
She paused again, her bosom rising and falling, her cheeks flushed.
"Go on," I said, encouragingly. "Do not fear I shall misunderstand. I
have been through the same mill."
She gave me a quick glance of gratitude, pressing back a straggling
strand of hair.
"But you were not a woman," she insisted, "and could defend yourself
from insult. I endeavored so hard to discover some opening; I even
sought domestic service, and was examined as though I was a horse on
sale. I walked the streets; I refused to despair, or permit myself to
believe failure possible. I went home at night, tired out, to a little
rented room in Forty-Ninth Street, prayed as I used to when a child,
cried myself to sleep, only to wake up the next morning determined to
continue. I was not weak then; I was as strong as any girl could be;
I--I fought it out to the very last," her head suddenly drooping,
"but--but the end came just the same. Perhaps I should never have hung
on so long; perhaps it would have been better to have sent word to my
mother, and asked help to go home. But--but I kept hoping to succeed,
until it was too late. I spent all the little money I had, and pawned
my rings. I had married against my mother's wish. I could not turn to
her for help. Oh, I was tempted; I think you must know what I mean!
You realize what temptation is; how it weakens, and conquers the soul?"
I closed my hand firmly over hers.
"Yes, I know."
Her sensitive face brightened; her eyes clearing of mist.
"It is a comfort to speak with a gentleman again. I--I had almost
begun to believe there were none left in the world. You give me
courage to go on, to acknowledge everything. Mr. Craig, I was a soul
tottering on the brink when I met you out yonder; a desperate,
disheartened girl, tempted to the point of surrender. I had lost hope,
pride, all redeeming strength of womanhood. I scarcely cared whether
death, or dishonor, claimed me. I do not know what fateful impulse
moves me now, but I can look into your eyes without sense of shame, and
confess this. I was, in all essential truth, a woman of the
street--not yet lowered utterly to that level, not yet sacrificed, but
with no moral strength left for resistance. No fear, no horror. Oh,
God! it seems like some awful dream--yet it was true, true! I had
ceased to struggle, to care; I had begun to drift; I had lost
everything a woman prizes, even my faith in God. I know you cannot
comprehend what this means--no man could. But I want you to try.
Think what it would mean to your sister, to some pure friend in whom
you have implicit trust. Oh, I know what the world would say--the
well-fed, well-clothed, well-housed, sneering world--but it is to you I
appeal for some slight mercy. You have also suffered, and grown weak,
and, because you told me your story first, I dare now to tell mine. I
was a soul on the brink, and--God forgive me!--not afraid of the rocks
below. Like one stupefied I looked down, hated myself and laughed."